Suitcase Full Of Sparks
by mockingjayne
Summary: "For it's not the burning flames that took Oscar that she sees when she closes her eyes, those flames had long since been put out, but rather the faded glow of Kurt's eyes that had left smoldering embers threatening to reignite..." Post S1 Finale / Jeller


Her finger traces the small crack in the wall, her skin pinching in the crevice of the barely there line that mars the otherwise monotonous perfection of the room. The jagged edges of the black fragment stand out, much like her jet black hair in a sea of white - an imperfection, a smudge that was never meant to be, one that could easily be painted over like it never existed to begin with, a deeper testament to the signs of a crack in the foundation. That's exactly what she felt like.

She let out a deep sigh, the white sheets rustling beneath her, the only sound present aside from her own breath billowing from her lips, elevating wisps of her air into the air for the briefest of seconds before falling flat against her face. The once bouncy curls that used to adorn her head on the daily have since succumbed to her new life, one of a solitude, endless days that blur into one giant nightmare, and the only conversations to be had are the ones taking place in her head, which usually end in dry sobs with _"I'm sorry"_ uttered into her crisp white pillow.

Ever since the night she'd stumbled into her house, bruised and beaten, tears dripping down her swollen cheeks, only to find Kurt, the one person she knew she could trust to tell the truth, so angry with her, she'd realized that her admission of guilt had come too late. Despite having done what she did to save him, the threat of his murder looming over her with every mission she'd been given and reluctantly carried out, she'd failed in the one cause she'd ever really cared about. Him. In doing what she felt would keep him safe, she'd ultimately hurt him in a way she had never even seen coming.

Mayfair had been right. The look on Kurt's face as he accused her, dangerously stern in his assertion over her, as his childhood fears came to fruition in a harsh reality, he didn't look at her like she was something to be protected, but rather something he needed to protect himself from. All her excuses, her pleas, had fallen on deaf ears, as he'd arrested her, parading her in front of people she'd once considered friends like the traitor that she was. Is.

There was a very distinct difference between herself and the woman who had willingly chosen to track Weller, become intimately familiar with his tragedy, scarring her body first with a knife, and then with a needle, his named emboldened on her back for everyone to see, claiming herself a permanent mark for his taking. That person was someone that despite the flashbacks that seemed to be coming back less frequently now that she did nothing but sit around staring at empty walls, was someone she didn't recognize and didn't want to be.

A slight smirk appeared on her lips, the thought of having thwarted this other woman's plans, even a little bit, bringing her comfort. She had likely had a contingency plan for everything, she seemed like the calculated type, almost obsessive in the details - having known that she'd have to be as close to Taylor as possible to get Kurt to trust her, to bring her in, keep her close. But the one thing she hadn't seemed to have a contingency plan for, the one thing she couldn't have anticipated was the she, Jane, would end up falling for Kurt just as much as he'd fallen for her. Her level of commitment to the team, to this man she'd been sent to, was something that none of them had anticipated, and the exact thing that had ended with her in this current predicament.

Every other day a member of the team, usually Reade, sometimes Tasha, would come in and interrogate her, ask her questions that she didn't have the answers to. The varying degrees of anger radiating off of them, made her cringe, her head hung low, the black hair contrasting with the pale of her skin, reflecting remorse, and receiving no pity.

Their initial reaction had been that of confusion when Kurt had filled them in on exactly why he felt it necessary to bring her in. That feeling was quickly changed to sheer rage when she'd finally admitted to the full spectrum of crimes committed by Oscar and his people, the final blow, cementing her time in this box, was when she'd told them of Mayfair's fate. Patterson had teared up, while Kurt's jaw had clenched down so hard, she swore he'd cracked a tooth.

She hadn't seen him since.

She'd been stripped of everything. Literally and figuratively. They'd taken her clothes, removing the emerald necklace, the last tangible piece of Taylor she'd taken on, and leaving her with nothing but the ink on her back and the scar she'd never be able to remove, a daily reminder of the traitorous act she'd committed in another life, reaping the repercussions down on her today.

The question of _"Who am I?"_ wasn't even one that she wanted to know anymore.

Picking at a strand of thread coming loose on her shirt, rolling it between her two fingers, she stared down at the resemblance to the same image that had adorned the mirror when she'd first crawled out of that bag in Times Square.

The blank slate it had represented back then now seemed in stark contrast to the blackened taint she now wore, the white almost coming off as ironic, as there was nothing angelic about the crimes she was being held for.

The loud siren from the door's security rang out through her cell, but she refused to look up to see which member of her team had come to inflict today's barrage of questions upon her. She continued staring down at the thread dangling from her shirt, the rhythmic back and forth of her fingers allowing her a reprieve from her thoughts.

The figure casts a shadow that engulfs her in a darkness, accompanying her mood.

"Jane."

It's his voice, the one she often hears late at night in her mind when she's gone over and over what happened, tearful apologies fallen on deaf ears. It's been weeks since she'd actually heard her name fallen from his lips, the last time being terse, laced with alcohol and pent up anger seeping through. This time it seems filled with unanswered questions, and a slight break at the end, like a regret, like shame calling her name.

She shuts her eyes, letting the moment wash over her, afraid to open her eyes and find the same look of disappointment, fear, anger reflecting back at her from before. Enduring that again would be a special kind of torture, one she's not sure she'd survive.

He seems to sense her hesitation as stubbornness. "I need to talk to you," he says in a more stern voice than before.

She reluctantly swings her legs over, her eyes still shut tight, his voice like a needle, slowly moving over her skin, stabbing her a million different times, inking her body with an undeniable truth of the status of them.

Resting her hands on her knees, she takes a deep breath before pushing herself up, her eyes now open but cast down to the floor, refusing to make contact with his face. She comes to stand in front of the glass, their shadows intermixing in a mysterious dance.

He begins speaking, this time in a professional manner, detailing a case that she finds herself zoning out of, the cadence of his voice washing over her, the words itself unimportant, and when she closes her eyes she can almost pretend that there isn't a thick piece of glass separating them, but rather they're standing in the privacy of the locker room, his hand brushing against her's, bringing a slight blush rushing to her cheeks, as he leans over to kiss her forehead, the soft billows of his breath hitting her, as if casting a spell causing a giggly smile, and a dimpled one from the man himself. A simpler time, a better time.

It brings a slight smile to her face, but causes a halt in his words, silence ringing over them now. Her mouth quickly dropping to a frown, the moment having been broken.

"Are you listening?" he barks out, and she doesn't want to lie to him anymore than she already has, but she nods her head to not further anger him.

He continues, having not noticed or not caring that she was obviously not listening to what he was saying. But she heard no inflection indicating a question, so she couldn't help but think that maybe he didn't have to be here, detailing whatever it was he was going on about, but rather wanted to be here, and was using this as an excuse.

This type of willowy daydream leaves her reaching for the necklace hanging from her neck, but when her hand touches nothing but skin, she's once again catapulted into reality, faltering with the memory of it being removed, taking her once confirmed identity with it.

Silence once again overtakes them, her hand lingering on the area the emerald once touched, and she can feel Kurt's eyes staring at the motion.

"Where's the necklace?" he quickly says, as if his brain hasn't caught up with his mouth, spitting out the question before he can catch himself.

It catches her off-guard, and she finds her eyes flicking up to his face, just for a moment, the same eyes she once knew staring back at her, not the harsh, uncaring ones that had threatened her existence back in her house. But it's only a moment, before he breaks contact, looking to the side at a camera in the corner.

She glances up at it as well, before moving back to look at his face.

"They, umm, they took it…when they took everything else," she half whispers to him.

He nods, his face creasing into one of frustration, lowering his head, and rubbing the back of his neck. Her eyes trace the lines of his face, the same way her finger had traced the crack in the wall earlier.

"I just…I'm sor…" she begins, but he cuts her off with his hand, holding it up to stop her from another apology, one of many she'd delivered the night he'd arrested her.

He turns around, shutting himself off to her, and begins walking towards the door he'd entered through. Her face falls, the realization of the dissonance between where they were and where they are hitting her harder than the blows her face was still healing from.

She lowers her forehead to rest on the coolness of the glass, her hands coming to rest on either side, the palms reaching out on either side, in surrender.

It's then that she hears, "I'll see to it that you get the necklace back," before the loud siren of the door indicates his absence. His quick exit, disregarding the case he'd been talking about, showing the true intentions of the visit.

Her green eyes well with tears, a few cascading down her face when she shuts them. For it's not the burning flames that took Oscar that she sees when she closes her eyes, those flames had long since been put out, but rather the faded glow of Kurt's eyes that had left smoldering embers threatening to reignite, the promise of a returned gift shedding an emerald of hope that they could possibly, one day get back to the place they were, or rather, a better place, a more honest place.

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 _A/N: I took a hiatus from writing Jeller fics after a bad experience, and I didn't really plan on writing again, at least not for this show. However, after that finale, I couldn't help but picture a glass cell and an awkward, hopeful encounter between Jane and Kurt._


End file.
